Bonus update: Empire has a phenomenal reload bonus of 100 percent up to $500 using the bonus code MATCHBONUSEP. You'll have 30 days to work off 2500 raked hands (only 5x). I suspect this is a mistake, so I don't anticipate it working very much longer. Take it while you can! Once it's sitting in your account, they'll honor it.

9/29/04 -- This code spread too far and Empire revoked and replaced it with a HOTSEP (10 percent up to $100 retroactively). To make up for their mistake, they've released this bonus automatically with no raked hand requirement. A little consolation.

Last year was the last time I was in Atlantic City right before a good friend moved to San Francisco. We both began playing seriously early last year (i.e., became Sklansky disciples). Now he's off winning first place multis for $8000+ paydays on the west coast, and I'm... not.

I had planned to stay where we usually did at the Irish Inn, this quaint rustic (read: cheap with shared bathrooms and no air conditioning) hotel off the boardwalk and a 10-minute walk from the Taj. Downstairs is the restaurant bar with cheap eats (a po' man's special for $1.95) and brunette Irish servers in shorts. It's the type of 24-hour bar where just like in the movies, everyone spontaneously bursts into a Neil Diamond song... only they're different Neil Diamond songs... at the same time.

But if not to just check out their rooms, I figured I'd splurge at the Borgata, which I'd visited several times but never stayed.

I booked Thursday and Friday, after first being told they were sold out Friday. I called back a few minutes later on the toll line and got booked with no problem. That's a tip with these infuriating casinos. No casino is every truly sold out; why would they ask for your player's number first? If they say so, hang up and try again or try the info line to get a different department. Then lay on the saccharine, preferably with a Southern accent ("my wife loooves your spa and it's our anniversary and she'd just KILL me if we shacked up at that dirty' ol bankrupt Taj"). Not saying I do this, but I'm not above it. All's fair in love and casino rooms.

No poker room rate for Friday and Saturday (and comp dollars now expire after 4+ months of nonuse), but an excellent Sunday-Thursday bargain of $59 with a minimum 4 hours of poker play. Easy!

Thursday at the last minute, my ride cancels. I'd planned to go up with a friend but he ran into work and car problems and couldn't go. I scramble to find another way.

Driving myself was the last resort. I worry about the condition of my 11-year-old car with a slow leak in the right front tire and a nail stuck in the rear left tire, and I can't drive longer than two hours without falling asleep, which will make a cross-country trip quite the experience (it would take me at least two weeks).

I had the Greyhound schedule memorized (basically 5:45 p.m. and 5:50 p.m. -- if I missed one, I was in for a 2-hour wait and a 6-hour trip with many stops) as a backup and took a cab up to the terminal behind Union Station. The cab turned out to be a Mercedes with an Albanian driver (the flag on his keychain) complaining about his fares' low tipping and the luxury of his $80,000 vehicle, as he strokes the leather and GPS map like a James Bond villain pets his cat.

He gets me there at a flat rate but also at a slow 40 mph because he's twisting his head looking at me the entire time and spouting off about his $350,000 insurance policy and his cheap customers who don't know how good they got it. I take the hint and tip him well, then feel like an immediate target stepping out of a Mercedes at the bus terminal that's valued less than one of his car payments.

No line, and the cost of the roundtrip bus: $34. Less than the cab.

Several stops, some napping, and I'm dropped at the Taj a bit over 4 hours later. I walk through the cacophony of slot machines, feeling ill at the smoke and sounds and without the least desire to sit down at one. I cash in my $17 voucher from a grumpy cashier (making the roundtrip $17... why don't I do this more often?), grab a hotdog pretzel, and cab it to the Borgata.

I check in at 11 p.m. to no lines at all.

No traffic, no lines, poker room rate... Thursday night arrivals are the nuts.

The Borgata's version of hotel security is a guy standing outside the Living Room (a place for guests to hang out and ogle the eye candy from the privacy of their own glass window or, reverse that, a zoo and we're the animals! Take that, Shyamalan!) glancing at yellow keycards. A flash of yellow anything would get you in. And that includes a hooker on your arm wearing a plastic yellow miniskirt (not me, my miniskirt is nylon black). She walked in just fine escorted by a guy with a yellow card.

Room 2121 is nice and serviceable, with a view of the roof and the Trump Marina. Worth the $59 poker rate but certainly not the $399 Fri/Sat rate, particularly considering I played all night Friday. An empty fridge in the cabinet, along with a coffeemaker. Overboard with the phones -- a cordless by the bed, another on a table, and another by the toilet. I love the big solid wooden doors that are also in their restrooms. Gives you a real sense of privacy while poopin'.


I'll have the 3/6 to start

No waiting list (Thursday!), and after a Poker Snack (as it read on the room bill) of chicken fingers, fries, a fruit tart, and bottled water ($13), I buy into a 3/6 game.

Loose as it ever was, most flops were seen by at least six people.

None of my big pockets, AK, or AQ hold up. One hand I have AA in the big blind with seven callers. I raise, and all seven call.

The flop is K-2-J. I check, UTG bets, four people call, and I raise. Even a check-raise doesn't shake anyone out.

In the end, I lose to 2-4 when a 4 hits the river. At least he didn't raise me.

I play looser, I refresh my Capt&Coke drink of choice, and I rebuy $100.

I have $1500 with me and intentionally skipped the higher limits because I didn't want to be broke before meeting the bloggers.

Already $100 into the 3/6 game, but I was having fun.

A guy begins tilting majorly and a friend of his pops by, saying, "Dude, I can't believe it. I got rivered. I had King-Two and the guy caught his kicker on the river." Which would mean his 2 kicker was dead anyway regardless of the river.

I stick around, seeing that his friend nodded in sympathy and seeing the types of hands he's tilting with.

A few hands later I have 56o. Not even suited but in position with half of New Jersey limping.

I join the party and limp along to a Q-6-3 flop. Tilty bets, I figure the pot is now big enough to make the call with medium pair, another caller.

Turn is a 6. Tilty bets, I smooth call to get the other guy to call, and he does.

River is blank. I raise here, and get Tilty to pull a Hellmuth and storm away. But not without calling. I'm so evil.

He doesn't show, but I put him on Q2.

Our table breaks and I move to another table with a fellow Capt&Coke brother to my right. Only his drinking seems to be affecting his play -- he's calling every hand and betting every flop even if it was raised pre. The new dealer nicknames him Gage, after the guy in the Mortal Combat movie, which I nod in recognition as if I know what the young'uns are talking about.

A Fight Club (a movie I do know about) drunk guy in the 3seat is raising every hand and taking his cards off the table to look at them before waiting 60 seconds on his action. He's been warned twice by the floor and is given a third-time-you're-out warning.

He raises a hand and I decide to call with QJs in the BB.

Flop is Q-J-x.

Gage is in the SB and, as expected, bets out. I raise. Player to my left calls, along with Fight Club.

Turn is blank. Gage bets out, I raise. A call and Fight Club takes his cards off the table to look at them once again, shows everyone carelessly, and mucks.

The floor was standing watching the whole hand and says, "And that's three. You're on a one-hour break. Dealer, deal him out next hand."

Fight Club doesn't hear any of this or pretends not to. Number one rule: you do not talk about Fight Club.

The river is blank. Gage checks, I bet. The other guy folds. Gage calls with K-J and I take down a healthy pot. Gage says, "Just want to see what people are made of."

Yet even though he now knew it wasn't frogs and snails and puppy dog tails, he continued to bet out every flop.

The next hand the dealer skips Fight Club, who immediately stands and explodes. The dealer looks like an Army brat and can handle himself (on your action, the dealer pounds his fist in front of you, which I kinda liked and took to pounding my fist when checking). Army dealer says to call the floor. Fight Club does and he and the floor get into each other's faces within spittin' distance. Security circles FC and I think he's a bit outnumbered, but I may be seeing double. FC makes a wise decision and elects to leave.

It's always sad seeing the ATM close for the night.

One huge pot had me limp with Q8s (yep, my kicker standards went down) with everyone checking a flop of 7-9-J (two of my suit). The turn is 10. I check, the guy to my left bets, a few callers, and I check-raise. I fear KQ just a bit and wanted to see if anyone had it.

The guy to my left 3bets, it's called around. And I go ahead and cap. More callers.

KQ possible, but I'm convinced the guy to my left would've raised preflop.

The river is an 8, putting a board of 7-8-9-10-J out there.

Guy to my left has 89. And the one guy who called the whole way, through all those raises... he had Q6o, my hand is counterfeited, and we split the pot.

I'm well past 4 hours of play at this point, but wanted to lock in the poker rate and double my hours to be safe before clocking out.

I get one more Capt&Coke to go, thinking it's ironic that I had a Capt&Coke for dinner and here I am having it for breakfast.

I clock out and request the poker room discount (not guaranteed and still at the discretion of management). They write down my player's number and room number in a little notebook. She has cute handwriting and I'm smitten. Who needs computers?


Bedtime for grubby

The Borgata bed is the most comfortable I've ever been in. I could drown in dreams in the 300-thread-count white sheets. At home, I sleep on a hard mattress or the couch if I'm too lazy to get up. Wherever I move next, I resolve to live like a normal grub and get a real bed with real box springs and a real mattress that I can stuff counterfeit money into. With 300-thread-count white sheets.

I hit the pillow at 8 a.m. The alarm goes off at 11:30. Immediately after the phone rings -- it's Al, they just rolled in. I say I'll be down soon and hop in the shower.

Which takes longer than anticipated, because I'm mopping the mini-flood I made. Borgata has nice large glass showers (for two) but engineering was a little lax in sealing the hinge area completely, so when the showerhead points to it, water sprays through and has a habit of building a nice puddle.

The oversized towels sop up the water nicely, as I create a little white mountain resembling Richard Dreyfuss' mashed potatoes, and I leave a couple dollars to tip my mistake (which would occur again the next day).

And I head downstairs to meet the infamous bloggers.


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